Single Daddy's Valentine: (A Small Town Fake Fiancee Romance)

by Amanda Horton

  But he was a good friend and didn’t take advantage of her weakness.

  I’m forever grateful for that.

  Is it a little weird that my best friend is bedding my daughter?

  Hell, yeah.

  There are things I don’t like to think about, and that’s one of them. So it’s especially strange that my daughter is going to marry him, with Cole, Jersey, and Rory standing in as groomsmen.

  So I’m standing here in my tux waiting for my daughter to come out of the dressing room so I can escort her down the aisle.

  The door opens, and I stare. She always was beautiful, but today she takes my breath away.

  The wedding dress is an Empire waist because it is the best waistline to minimize a pregnancy. Yep. My little girl is going to be a mom. I couldn’t be more proud.

  Color me shocked when I found out all it takes now is a sample of the mother’s blood and a DNA sample from the potential fathers to determine who to call papa. Again, by agreement, they all decided she should marry the baby daddy though that’s hardly necessary in California to protect the rights of the child. Holmes said it had to do with karma, which absolutely made no sense to me, but the rest of the guys ate up his words, so what am I to say?

  “You ready?” she said with a big smile.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Because there are three more after this.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We figure each time I get pregnant I’ll divorce the last one and marry the next. By the time I’m done, I’ll call all of them husband with good reason.”

  “That’s, that’s—”

  “Genius,” she smiled. “Instead of “My Three Sons” we’ll have “My Four Husbands.”

  “You’re not seriously thinking—”

  She laughed. “Of course not. Well, almost. Cole likes the idea of a reality show.”

  “He would.”

  “The ratings would be huge. A producer called me about the concept already.”

  I groaned. Nothing, but nothing is kept secret in Hollywood.

  “Dad, relax. Poly relationships are all the rage now. Have you looked at our client list lately? Being seen as the hip PR company has given us a big boost, even in New York.”

  I noticed. I’m not a stupid man, though I feel behind the times. Still, I’m not willing to concede defeat.

  “I don’t know why I agreed to this,” I said grumpily.

  “Easy. Grandkids,” she said patting my hand.

  I looked down the aisle at the four men who own my daughter’s heart, and I wondered only one thing.

  How can I get four women?

  I mean, I have a lot of time to make up for.

  *****

  THE END

  BONUS BOOK 2 ON NEXT PAGE

  BONUS BOOK 2

  HER GREEK INHERITANCE (A Billionaire Second Chance Romance)

  Prologue

  Paris, France

  Two years earlier…

  I really don’t belong here. Gemma Larsen swallowed. She’d walked to the hotel from the closest métro station, but the other patrons were arriving in everything from Rolls Royces to Bentleys. As the uniformed doorman bowed to the elegantly attired woman in front of her, she was not surprised to hear the words ‘Your Majesty.’ Of course she’s a princess! This place looks like a palace—not an auction house.

  The doorman turned to her. Gemma took a deep breath and approached. I wonder what the French is for ‘gate-crasher.’ To her immense relief, the man bowed, giving her the same courteous welcome as the other guests. “Welcome, Mademoiselle.”

  “Good evening.”

  “Enjoy looking at the artwork.” He ushered her in the direction of the exhibition.

  As Gemma stepped into the hotel, her conviction that it was only a matter of time before she was sent packing rushed back. Everywhere she looked, she saw celebrities and wealthy patrons. She glanced around at the ornate furnishings, marble tiles, and crystal chandeliers. God, I feel like a street urchin amongst royalty. And yet, the doorman didn’t seem to know I’m merely a pauper.

  Just as she was about to run back into the street, she caught sight of herself in a gleaming mirror. She wore a simple black evening dress that ended several inches above her knees. Her arms were bare, while the plunging back revealed more than half her spine. The elegance of the dress was accentuated by her simple black leather pumps and pale white skin. Working in a museum had its advantages, but getting a healthy tan wasn’t one of them. No one gave her a second glance. In fact, a waiter approached her and offered a glass of champagne.

  Gemma sipped the drink, feeling her confidence return. “Merci.” She wandered through the massive exhibition hall.

  No! As Gemma entered into yet another makeshift viewing room, a painting caught her eye. The Renoir had obviously been damaged by water and sunlight at some point. Even worse was the evidence of a poor restoration job. How could anyone take such a masterful piece of art and do further damage to it? Gemma blinked her eyes, hoping a second glance would reveal something different, but that was not in the cards for this painting. Incompetence. Plain and simple.

  She sighed and then turned away. It was her last night in Paris. Time to put her worries aside and enjoy it. Who knew if she’d ever get an opportunity to visit such an amazing place again?

  A uniformed attendant approached, inviting her to follow him. “Miss, if you would please? The gallery owner thought you might wish to see the paintings you spent the last few days reviewing auctioned off?”

  Gemma nodded. “Yes, I would.” She followed him to a large room. The bidders were seated neatly in rows of chairs. A small watercolor was currently being displayed and she listened as the auctioneer read off her appraisal of the damage and potential cost of the restoration work.

  “The bidding will start at two hundred thousand dollars,” the auctioneer declared.

  A sea of white cards lifted into the air. Gemma barely managed to contain her gasp of surprise. Two hundred thousand dollars for a damaged painting?

  While she was trying to imagine having that much money, the bids continued to climb. The auction ended at one million two hundred thousand dollars.

  “Sold to bidder 4675.” The auctioneer nodded to an attendant. The small painting was quickly replaced by the next offering up for bid.

  Dazed, Gemma slipped out the side door. These people either really like their art or have more money than Croesus! God, if I had that kind of money I certainly wouldn’t spend it on a damaged painting...

  Her mind went back to Tyler’s phone call earlier that day. Her twenty-year-old brother was finishing his third year at university. He’d called with the news that he’d lost his academic scholarship for the upcoming year, leaving a huge shortfall in his tuition.

  If he could only be more responsible and think about the consequences of his actions! Gemma shook her head. Five thousand dollars in less than three months’ time... How in the world am I going to come up with that? And what happens if I can’t come up with it? Could I still take out a student loan on his behalf?

  She heard the auctioneer’s voice rise as another painting was sold. If I only had a small fraction of the money these bidders do, I could pay Tyler’s tuition for the next ten years.

  She wandered aimlessly back towards the viewing galleries, her mind stuck on the problem of Tyler’s tuition. Her phone rang and she paused in a small alcove to answer it. She smiled when she saw Aimee’s photo pop up on her caller I.D. “Aimee.”

  “Gem, how is Paris?”

  “Beautiful, what I’ve seen of it, anyway. I’ve been busy working since I arrived and I’ve only seen a few things on the car rides back and forth.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to come home tomorrow?” her best friend asked.

  “Yes, first thing in the morning.”

  “Well, what are you doing right now?”

  “Wandering around an exhibit of the various art pieces that were part of the auction and thinking of al
l the things I could spend the kind of money being dropped here tonight on.” Gemma glanced around, but none of the other guests was in hearing range.“I got a phone call from Tyler just before coming here this evening. He lost his academic scholarship for next semester...”

  “So? Isn’t it time you let your brother stand on his own two feet?”

  Gemma frowned. They’d been over this before. “If Mom and Dad had lived, they’d have made sure he got through school without incurring a huge student loan debt. Just like they did for me.” Gemma was twenty-three when both of her parents were killed, and Tyler barely sixteen. “I’m just doing what I know they would have done.”

  “You’re killing yourself trying to handle everything on your own,” Aimee argued.

  Gemma winced. “Tyler did say he was going to try to find a better job. That’s something, right?”

  “Tyler needs to grow up!” Aimee told her.

  Gemma sighed. “Well, unfortunately, I don’t see that happening in the next three months. But enough about my troubles. How is life in the capitol?”

  “Same as always. Busy. Congested. Full of politically correct men who always think they know best. Oh, and let’s not forget the swarms of school-age kids that have descended upon the city for their school field trips.”

  Gemma smiled. “Sounds about the same.”

  “You know it. So, how bad were the paintings?” Aimee asked.

  Gemma groaned. “Some of them could be repaired, with lots of work, but there is one…I think it might be beyond repair. It should be a crime. I can’t imagine what someone was thinking, leaving those paintings to rot away.”

  “Maybe they didn’t realize what they had?”

  “Unlikely. I’m just glad I’m finished writing my appraisals. The curator believes they’ll get a higher price if the bidders know the chances of restoring them.”

  “I hope you’re going to get something for yourself out of this.”

  “I’ll get a commission for any of the paintings I restore, as will the Smithsonian.”

  “You’d better,” Aimee stated firmly. “You’ve done nothing but work your butt off for the last five years, taking care of everyone and everything.”

  Gemma shook her head. Aimee was an ever loyal friend. “It hasn’t been all bad.”

  “When was the last time you did something just for the fun of it?”

  “Um—” Gemma’s brain stalled.

  Aimee snorted. “See? That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “I have fun.” Gemma’s mind went to the various things in Paris she’d been hoping to see, but hadn’t had time for. And now it was too late. Well, I saw them from a distance.

  “This is your last night in Paris. You need to have some fun. Any cute guys hanging out at this event?”

  Gemma glanced around the small hallway. “I don’t know. I’m standing in the hallway talking to you.”

  “Then I’m hanging up right now! God, find a cute French guy and flirt. This is your last night abroad and you need to make the most of it. Have a little fun. A little romance.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Girl, I expect to hear all about the wonderful memories you made tonight.”

  “Living vicariously through me?” Gemma laughed. Her spirits lightened. Aimee’s suggestion was starting to sound like sense...

  “You know it!” Aimee’s glee was infectious. “Now, hang up the phone, put on your sexiest smile, drink some champagne and have some fun!”

  Gemma smiled as she pocketed her phone. Maybe Aimee’s right. Maybe I should forget about the rules for tonight?

  She looked around, spotting a waiter rounding the corner at the end of the hallway. Perfect! Best way to liven the evening up is with a glass of champagne.

  She snagged a second glass, flashing the waiter a small smile and headed for the next painting on display. This time the painting was in its original glory. No damage, other than time, had been done to the piece.

  Gemma sighed happily. As an art restoration expert, she often missed the beauty of a painting because her critical eye was constantly looking for damage. That was what had brought her to Paris, after all.

  The curator of the art collection strode towards her, a Middle Eastern gentleman by his side. “Miss Larsen! Please, allow me to introduce you to Sheikh Amar el Sharid. He was the successful bidder on one of the watercolors you examined and is interested in procuring your services for the restoration work.”

  Gemma nodded to the man, dressed in the white robes and headdress of his country. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Miss Larsen is an expert in the restoration of watercolors. You won’t find a better person to work her magic on your latest acquisition.”

  In Oxford-accented English, the Sheikh inquired about her coming to his country to deal with the painting.

  She smiled at him and shook her head, “I’m afraid I must return to the States tomorrow. However, I would be happy to work on your piece if you could have it sent to the Smithsonian.”

  “Your employers won’t mind?” he asked with a raised brow.

  “No, I have their permission to do so. I’m an art restoration expert with the Smithsonian Museum in Washington D.C. specializing in watercolors of the French Impressionistic period.” She retrieved a business card from her small purse. “This is my information. There’s a phone number on the back you can contact to arrange for shipment and receipt of your painting. Additional paperwork will be mailed to you outlining the restoration process and the approximate time to complete the work.

  “In exchange for my services, there will be a contract included that gives the Smithsonian first right to display the painting once it is restored. If you have any questions or concerns, you can call for more details.”

  The Sheikh took the card and then bowed to her and the curator before walking off with a thoughtful look on his face.

  Gemma turned to the curator. “It sounds like the auction went well.”

  He smiled broadly. “Yes, all but the large Monet have sold. Several individuals have expressed an interest in acquiring the piece, but due to the extensive damage we decided to pull it from the auction at the last minute. We’ll get the word out and choose the highest bidder in a silent auction later.”

  Gemma nodded slowly. “That piece definitely was in the worst shape. It’s a shame. It would have been a true masterpiece in its original glory.”

  The curator tugged his beard. “Yes, but I still have hope for it. Have you met any of the other bidders?”

  “Only the sheikh and one man from the Netherlands.”

  “With the auction’s end, that may change. You should wander around and make yourself available.” The curator caught sight of a guest beckoning him. “Excuse me.”

  Gemma wasn’t sorry to see him go. She hadn’t had time to grab dinner, and two glasses of champagne had her feeling light headed. I need some fresh air. A pair of French doors stood open at the end of the hallway. Perfect. Walking carefully, one foot in front of the other, she walked toward the door. The last thing she wanted was to stumble and embarrass herself in front of the auction house’s elite clientele. Christie’s was known for attracting the wealthiest and most famous collectors in the world, and this particular auction had even drawn some world leaders and royalty out to bid. Forgotten watercolors by some of the world’s most renowned painters? Everyone wanted a chance to own one of them.

  Gemma breathed in the evening air happily. Absently, she sipped from her champagne flute. Find some French guy and let him ravish you. That had been Aimee’s final suggestion. One Gemma wasn’t opposed to. How does one go about finding such a man? And why am I even considering following Aimee’s advice? I’m here to work. Work!

  She turned to look over the city, letting her concerns about work and Tyler’s tuition slip away into the night. Her gaze was drawn to the Eiffel Tower. She’d driven past it on her first day in Paris in the daylight, but hadn’t found time to visit it while it was all lit up.
It was one of her regrets, but since she wasn’t being required to pay for this trip, she couldn’t really complain. She currently couldn’t afford a trip out of Washington D.C., let alone across the ocean.

  One day. One day, Tyler will be finished with school and get a good job and then you can start saving up for something you want to do. Maybe a small house with its own laundry facilities and a yard? That would be nice. Maybe a tall, dark and handsome guy to go with the house…that would be really nice. In fact, I could use some male companionship right now. Gemma wrinkled her nose. Was Aimee right? Where are the cute French guys when you need them?

  She tipped her glass up, frowning as she discovered it was empty. She looked down and blinked. A full glass magically appeared before her. A masculine hand removed her empty glass and slid the full one between her fingers with a murmured “Allow me.”

  She looked up into the most sensuous eyes she’d ever encountered, a mere six inches from her own. She gasped and took a step back. Her eyes roved over the man before her. His dark hair, just a tad longer than was fashionable, hung over his brow. Her fingers curled with the sudden need to smooth it back.

  A smile curved his lips as he did his own perusal of her person. She felt a blush stain her cheeks. Wow! If I’d known all I had to do was wish, I would have done this a long time ago. Though on a second glance, the man didn’t look French. Definitely foreign. Italian, maybe?

  After several long seconds, she remembered her manners. “Thank you.”

  The gorgeous man smiled and inclined his head. “Efkharisto. So, tell me. What is a beautiful lady like you doing out here all by herself?” His voice was deep and gravelly, with what she thought was a Mediterranean accent. His skin was tan with just a hint of olive tone. He might be six feet three or four in height. Gemma herself was five feet seven, but she had to tip her head back to meet this man’s eyes, even with her three-inch heels on.

  Gemma murmured the first thing that came into her mind. “Fresh air.” She wondered what the language he’d spoken in was, but then she looked at his eyes. Instantly she forgot her question.